The Victor Ship
by catharticone
Summary: The Doctor and Rose step straight into American history, but what is their purpose?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** _Doctor Who_ is the property of the BBC. I'm just borrowing...

**Author's Note:** Thanks, as always, to Sonic Jules for encouragement and support.

* * *

Rose walked into the console room with a grimace upon her face. Her fingers tugged at the fitted waist of her dress, but it seemed the fabric would not budge.

"I can barely breathe!" she complained.

The Doctor arched an unsympathetic eyebrow at her. "You're the one who wanted to visit the American South, pre-Civil War. One viewing of _Gone with the Wind_ and you're enthralled with the era."

"Oi! It was romantic, an' men were mannered an'… genteel." She smiled a bit at finding the right word, then offered him an accusing little glare. "Which's more than I can say for you!"

"For me? I'm always a perfect gentleman!" the Doctor retorted.

"Don't think so. If you were, you wouldn't be laughin' behind my back at this torture device you call a dress!"

"Don't blame me. That's what women wore during that time period, at least the posh ones."

Rose considered the final phrase as she wriggled about in the confines of her corset. "Yeah? An' what did the other women wear? 'Cause if I can get away with somethin' that doesn't include this," she poked at the offending item, "then I will."

"I think you could find something a bit simpler. 'Course you won't be able to attend any balls, but if you just want to stroll along the Battery, maybe have a bowl of she-crab soup—ooh, that's really, really tasty—you should be fine in a more basic frock."

"Frock? Right. I'll just go an' see what else I can find."

"Check in the back," he advised as she left the room.

The Doctor returned his attention to the console. Charleston, South Carolina, spring 1860. That would give Rose a taste of the Old South. And he'd get a taste of that wonderful, rich, sherry-laced soup. Yep, this was one stop he was sure he'd enjoy.

* * *

Rose returned about half an hour later. She'd replaced the fitted, hoop-skirted gown with an unpretentious dress. He thought it suited her much better, really. The fabric was a dusty rose with a lavender and sage pattern—paisley, if he wasn't mistaken. Elbow-length sleeves flared slightly, adorned with just a touch of lace. The skirt was full, but not sufficiently to require a hoop skirt beneath it. She looked much more comfortable now.

He gave her a smile of approval, then asked, "Ready?"

"I am, but what about you?"

"Always."

"No, I mean your clothes. You're not gonna wear that, are you?"

He lifted his arm to glance at the brown, pin-striped fabric. "Of course I am. This is classic."

She shook her head. "Not according to the suits I saw in the wardrobe room. Cut's all wrong. You're gonna stand out like a sore thumb."

"No one'll notice me."

She chuckled with a shake of her head. "People always notice you!"

He lifted his chin a little. "With these looks, can you blame them?"

Rose burst into laughter. "You wish!" His semi-affronted expression, however, prompted her to add, "But y' know, a Rhett Butler look'd be good on you, and there's this gorgeous brown velvet jacket in the wardrobe room. It'd match your eyes." She dropped her voice just at touch with the final comment.

"Fine," he relented, definitely not swayed by her vague flattery. "But you're going to have to admit that I look devastatingly handsome when I'm done."

She grinned. "We'll see."

* * *

Nearly an hour later, the Doctor and Rose stepped from the TARDIS. Once he'd seen how flattering the cut of the jacket was on his slim frame, he'd donned a pair of sable trousers, a cream colored shirt, and a midnight blue cravat. The look on Rose's face when he re-entered the console room had made it all worthwhile.

"I've gotta admit it," she'd said. "You look good."

"Told you." He'd sashayed past her to complete the dematerialization sequence, then they'd left the ship together.

The weather was crisp and sunny. They'd landed in a small grove of thickly blossoming cherry trees, where their mode of transportation would be fairly unobtrusive to any but the most curious eye. Outside the grove, they found a pretty open area with low, grassy hills bisected by a single, winding dirt road. In the distance, perhaps two miles away, they could see a town.

"I thought Charleston was on the water," Rose commented, seeing no signs of the ocean.

"It is. We might be slightly off course."

Rose rolled her eyes. "How off?"

"I'm not entirely sure, but we're definitely in the South, and judging by that carriage, we're not too far off the mark time-wise."

He pointed at a horse-drawn carriage a short distance down the road. A driver sat in the front, and a passenger reclined in the seat behind. The horses trotted briskly along.

"Maybe we can ask them just where and when we are," Rose suggested.

"Yep, I think we—" Abruptly the Time Lord stopped speaking, his eyes drawn to the sudden change in the horses. They bolted forward, probably spooked by a snake or other animal near the road.

"Oh no," the Doctor muttered. "No, no, no…"

They watched in growing horror as the carriage careened around a bend in the road. The front wheels left the ground, and the conveyance was suddenly unbalanced. Rose gasped when the axle twisted then snapped, freeing the horses. The carriage thudded onto its side. Both the driver and the passenger were thrown onto the road.

The Doctor's feet were already pounding over the ground as he dashed toward the scene of the accident. Rose followed closely behind. The passenger was sprawled awkwardly with his right arm lying at an unnatural angle. He was not moving. The driver, however, was on his side, trying to push himself up.

"See to him," the Time Lord instructed curtly, heading for the more severely injured of the men.

Rose dropped to her knees beside the driver, resting a gently hand upon his shoulder. "It's all right," she said. "Try not to move. Can you tell me what hurts?"

The man shook his head. "I have to see to him." His eyes shot from her face to the other victim.

"Don't worry. The Doctor's takin' care of him; he's in good hands," she assured him.

"Doctor?" The driver exhaled slowly.

"Yeah. An' I'm Rose. What's your name?"

"Wilkins, miss."

Wilkins was insistent upon sitting, so Rose helped him with a hand against his back. She could see a deep scrape against his cheek, and he winced as he attempted to move his left leg. Yet his attention shifted quickly back to his passenger. She glanced back, too. The Doctor was running the sonic screwdriver over the man's inert form.

"Oh Lord, is he dead?" the driver asked, clearly distraught at the thought. He tried to rise, but his leg gave out, sending him back to the ground. He groaned in frustration then grasped Rose's wrist. "Find out, please."

She nodded as she got to her feet. "You stay here. Don't try to move."

The Doctor had tucked the sonic device back into his pocket by the time Rose reached him. He was examining the man's face, probing delicately over the right side.

"How is he?" she asked.

"Concussion—fairly serious," he reported succinctly, "and his jaw's broken in two places. Right humerus is fractured, too."

"Will he be all right?"

After a quick glance at Wilkins, the Doctor replied, "The concussion's the worst part, though this," he'd removed his hand from the man's face but gestured toward it again, "will take some time to heal. Medical science is still fairly primitive, so they won't be able to do much more than try to immobilize the bones."

"Is there anything you can do?"

"Yes, but I'm not sure that I should."

The driver had somehow managed to haul himself to his feet and was now hobbling heavily toward them, his left leg dragging oddly at his side.

"The Secretary," he panted. "How bad is it?"

"He should survive," the Doctor replied, running a quick yet appraising eye over the man's injured leg. "Looks like you've dislocated your knee."

"I'll be all right. But we need to get him back home."

The carriage was out of commission. Rose volunteered to walk up the road and try to find someone who might help. The driver assured her that once she explained who had been injured, securing assistance would be easy.

"Sorry," she replied, "I don't know his name."

Wilkins frowned for an instant then said, "You're both from England, aren't you?"

"We've only recently arrived," the Doctor acknowledged.

The driver nodded. "Just tell whoever you find that Secretary Seward has been hurt."

"Secretary?" the Doctor repeated. "Secretary of what?"

"Of State," Wilkins answered.

The Time Lord paused just a moment before asking, "Under whom?"

"Under President Lincoln, of course."

Rose's eyed widened slightly at the familiar name, but she didn't pause to question the driver further. She'd spotted another carriage coming along the road and, lifting her skirts, she hurried toward it.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

Wilkins had been correct: The moment Rose said the injured man's name, the well-dressed gentleman in the surrey quickly guided his horses toward the accident scene. He and the Doctor carefully lifted the Secretary into the back, where the Time Lord sat with him as they clattered along the road toward the pretty town ahead.

Rose discovered that the town was called Lafayette Park. As they approached, she saw a huge, grand home in the distance. It seemed familiar to her.

"What's that?" she asked.

The good Samaritan replied, "That is the White House, Miss."

"You mean _the_ White House? Where the President lives?"

"The same."

Rose's accent seemed to give her an automatic excuse for ignorance of American culture and history. Still, she felt it best not to press the issue so rode quietly as Seward's driver directed them toward a lovely red brick home.

Within a few minutes the Secretary had been carried to his upstairs bedroom, where the Doctor attended him. He had not yet regained consciousness, so the Time Lord prepared the broken arm for a splint while a servant hurried off to fetch the politician's own physician.

Rose remained with the Doctor as he scanned Seward's head once more then felt along the injured jaw again. He was frowning in concentration and concern.

"You've got a device that mends broken bones, right?" she asked.

He looked up. "Yes."

"I can run back to the ship an' get it—"

He shook his head. "Not a good idea, Rose."

"But that wouldn't change the time lines," she began to protest.

"It might." He tucked the sonic screwdriver back into his pocket. "See if you can find out exactly what the date is. If Lincoln's the president, that would put us somewhere in the early 1860s."

"Isn't that when the American Civil War was goin' on?"

"Could be. Make a few inquiries. And check on the driver, too. His knee's going to need attention, but I think for propriety's sake I should stay with Mr. Seward until his own doctor arrives."

Rose nodded. "I'll see what I can find out."

As she left the Secretary's room, she nearly collided with a young woman in the hallway.

"Oh! Sorry," Rose apologized.

The woman was pale and clearly shaken. She blinked at Rose in surprise. "Who… who are you?"

"I'm Rose. I'm with the Doctor. We saw the accident—"

"The doctor who's been helping Father?"

"Yeah. You're his daughter, then?"

"Fanny," she replied quickly, her attention shifting toward the bedroom. "How is he? Wilkins said he's been badly hurt, that he's unconscious."

"Doctor says he's got concussion an' a couple of broken bones, but he's gonna be all right."

"I must see him." She brushed past Rose but paused for a moment to add, "Thank you for helping."

Rose nodded. "Don't worry. Your dad's in good hands."

Concerned about Wilkins, she made her way downstairs. He had been helped to a settee in the sitting room. He lay against the cushions with a pinched expression and pallid complexion. His eyes were half-closed, but he opened them when she entered the room.

"How're you doin'?" she asked.

He swallowed and tried to push himself up onto his elbows. "How is Secretary Seward?" he responded.

"About the same. As soon as his doctor gets here, my Doctor'll sort your knee. You gonna be all right 'til then?"

"Yes, Miss."

His pallor belied his words. Rose saw a crystal carafe and several matching glasses on a side table. She poured a small amount of water then helped Wilkins drink a few sips.

"It wasn't your fault, y'know," she said. In addition to his worry about his employer, the driver was clearly anxious about his part in the mishap.

"I lost control," he replied shakily.

"You couldn't help it. Horses got spooked an' bolted. You couldn't've prevented that."

He shook his head. "I don't know. Perhaps if I'd taken a different route…"

"You had no way of knowin' anything would happen. No one's gonna blame you. I'll tell them exactly what happened; we saw the whole thing."

Wilkins exhaled slowly, relief seeping from him. "Thank you."

Their attention was drawn to the foyer, where agitated voices accompanied brisk footsteps on the marble floor. They saw the servant who'd rushed from the house as soon as they'd arrived. An older man, dressed in similar attire to the Doctor's, was right behind him.

"That's Dr. Verdi," Wilkins told Rose.

"D'you want me to stay with you?" she asked.

"You may be needed upstairs."

"I don't think so. Fanny's up there now, and with two doctors I'd probably just get in the way." She offered him a gentle yet reassuring smile.

"Thank you," he said, falling back against the cushions.

"Try to rest."

He nodded tiredly and closed his eyes. She found a lap robe across the back of a chair and set it carefully over him, mindful to avoid touching his knee. She'd noticed a newspaper folded neatly upon a side table and picked it up. She glanced at the date first: April 5, 1865. She skimmed the headlines, finding that Lincoln had recently toured the Confederate White House in Richmond, and that General Lee, the leader of the Confederate army, was expected to surrender within the next several days. So the war was nearly at an end.

She wished she could remember more about American history. She had a niggling feeling that there was something else important yet to come, but she'd never been a stellar student, particularly where world history was concerned.

She set aside the paper and returned her attention to Wilkins, offering him what small comfort she could as she waited for the Time Lord to join them.

* * *

After half an hour, Rose's concern for the unfortunate driver prompted her to seek assistance. He'd grown even paler, and his skin was now clammy. His hands were fisted tightly as he clenched his jaw intermittently against his pain.

"I'm gonna see how it's goin' upstairs," she finally said, adjusting the blanket and giving Wilkins's shoulder a gentle, comforting squeeze.

She was no expert in medicine or even in first aid, but she knew that his dislocated knee would be excruciatingly painful until it was returned to its proper position. She needed the Doctor to do that. She'd seen another man enter the house a few minutes ago and gleaned that he was also a physician, since a servant greeted him succinctly as Dr. Marshall. With additional assistance now available, perhaps her Doctor could leave the Secretary's side for a quick trip downstairs.

It was a measure of Wilkins' extreme discomfort that he did not attempt to dissuade her. The man's devotion to his employer was admirable; he'd insisted that she not disturb the sickroom when she'd suggested fetching the Doctor twenty minutes ago.

Rose hurried upstairs. The Secretary's bedroom door was open. Fanny stood near the foot of the bed with the male servant who'd brought the physicians. Dr. Verdi, Dr. Marshall, and the Time Lord were hunched over Seward doing something to his head.

Rose slid in beside Fanny and touched her hand briefly in a gesture of succor. The other woman glanced at her with a nod, and, to Rose's surprise, grasped her hand firmly, seeking the comfort offered.

The women stood silently for several minutes, listening to the doctors' murmurs and soft conversation. Finally, the Time Lord stepped back and looked up.

"How's he doin'?" Rose asked quietly.

She could now see the injured man. His arm was in a splint, and the side of his face and neck were wrapped in some sort of wire-based contraption. His eyelids fluttered restlessly. Several phials and bottles were set out on the night table, and she thought perhaps he'd been given some sort of drugs for his pain.

Without replying, the Doctor stepped away from the bed and offered a reassuring nod to Fanny. Rose hugged her shoulders then gave her full attention to the Doctor. He took her arm and led her out into the hallway.

Immediately she inquired, "Well?"

"He's going to be all right, I think." He glanced back once. "The jaw was difficult to set—Verdi and Marshall had no idea how to do it, but I came up with a rather clever solution using wire and thin bits of wood to immobilize the jawbone. Looks a bit funny, and it won't be particularly comfortable, but it should do the trick 'til the bones mend."

She nodded, not surprised that he'd solved a tricky issue. "Did he wake up?"

"He did, but unfortunately Verdi administered laudanum before I could stop him. Medical science is quite rudimentary at the moment; drug-induced sleep with a head injury is extremely ill-advised. I managed to do another scan, though, and it looks like the concussion is beginning to resolve. Still, I suggested that they wake him periodically to check his responses."

"How'd you get 'em to trust you?"

"Well, I'm brilliant, for one," he replied with a little grin. "And the psychic paper identified me as Doctor Ian Turlough, recently arrived from Cambridge to accept a position at William and Mary's College of Medicine. Suppose that helped a bit."

She gave his arm an affectionate nudge as they descended the stairs. "Yeah. Well, _Doctor_,the driver's in need of your skills. He's in a lot of pain, an' I think he might be goin' into shock."

His smug expression changed to one of concern. "Oh. Well, we can't have that."

They hurried to the sitting room, where the Doctor quickly evaluated Wilkins's condition. The man stirred, several groans escaping him.

"I'm going to sort your knee," the Doctor told him. "Hang on for just a moment. Rose, you need to keep him still while I do this."

"Yeah, 'course, whatever I can do to help," she said.

He directed her to press her leg over the man's thigh, keeping her weight fully upon him to prevent movement.

"Hold down his shoulders if you can, too," he added.

She got into position, and the Doctor wrapped his hands around Wilkins's calf. The injured man cried out in pain, his eyes flying open. He tried to sit up, but Rose pressed her hands against his chest and her knee against his thigh. Still, he was a large, sturdy man, and he thrashed mightily for several seconds before the Doctor's rapid motions snapped the knee back into place.

The action was accompanied by a heavy grunt that reverberated against Rose's hands. Then Wilkins went limp beneath her. She moved away.

"Think he's passed out," she informed the Doctor.

He pressed gentle fingers over the driver's throat. "Yes. Probably for the best, too. I'll get this wrapped before he regains consciousness. And, unlike Secretary Seward, a dose of laudanum won't hurt him; it'll just permit him to sleep until some of the pain passes. Run upstairs and ask Verdi for the bottle. And ask one of the servants to bring some strips of linen and the extra splints."

She scurried upstairs to procure the requested items then delivered them to the sitting room. She managed to get a spoonful of the opiate into Wilkins's mouth while the Doctor placed a splint on his knee.

Within a few minutes, the driver was deeply asleep. The Time Lord surveyed his work then ran the sonic screwdriver over the slumbering man. He gave a nod of satisfaction.

"He'll be all right."

Rose tucked the blanket around Wilkins once again, replying, "I'm glad. He feels terrible about the accident, but I told him it wasn't his fault."

"It really wasn't. There was nothing he could've done to prevent it. And it looks like Seward's going to recover, given time, so I suppose all's well that end's well."

As she replaced the cap on the laudanum bottle, her eye fell upon the newspaper. "Oh, I found out the date," she said off-handedly.

"Yes?"

"It's 1865."

"What month?"

"April."

For a moment the Doctor stiffened. "What day?"

"The fifth. War's almost over, an' the paper says they expect General Lee to surrender. He's in charge of the Southern troops," she added.

"Yes, I'm familiar with the country's history," he said tightly.

"Somethin' wrong?" she asked. She'd seen that look too many times to ignore it.

He shook his head slowly. "No, things are happening just as they should." Suddenly he gripped her shoulders. "You're needed here, Rose. You have to stay."

"Me? Why? What 'm I supposed to do?"

He swallowed and dropped his hands to his sides. "I'm not entirely sure, but it's important for you to remain here."

"Is somethin' gonna happen?"

He didn't reply. He'd already turned to leave the room. She sighed. She was pretty sure that no alien threats were looming, but something was clearly bothering the Time Lord. She supposed she'd find out soon enough; he'd tell her when he was ready. She wiped a few drops of water from the table then replaced the carafe on the sideboard. All she could do for the moment was wait.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

Three days later, Rose was still waiting. Unfortunately, she was still wiping water from table tops, and she'd been asked to dust, sweep, and mop the floors, too. She grumbled silently that she always seemed to end up working as a servant of some sort while the Doctor maintained a loftier position.

In this case, he'd arranged for her to remain in the Seward home by explaining that she'd been his maid in England but that he would not require her services in his new home. Her assistance with Wilkins, and the kind support she'd shown Fanny, had immediately engendered positive feelings for her among the household. With Wilkins out of commission for the next several weeks, another servant had taken the position of driver, leaving a vacancy among the small house staff. A male nurse named Sgt. Robinson had arrived to care for the Secretary, and Mrs. Seward, along with two of the Sewards' sons, were expected shortly, creating additional work for the staff, which currently consisted of a butler named William, the cook, the substitute driver, and Rose.

Rose still wasn't sure precisely what she was supposed to do, aside from household chores. She cleaned and tidied dutifully; the job wasn't really difficult. She had been given a small room off the kitchen, too, since the Sewards believed she had recently arrived from England and had not yet secured lodgings.

She tried to keep her eyes open for anything odd or threatening, but the house was fairly quiet. Dr. Verdi visited several times each day, and a handful of official-looking men popped in from time to time to check on Mr. Seward's condition, but no one seemed sinister or alien.

Two days after the accident Seward's wife arrived; she'd been visiting her sister in New York. Visibly distraught by her husband's accident, she spent the majority of her time at his bedside, usually joined by Fanny and Sgt. Robinson. Rose brought them tea and hot water so that they could bathe the injured man in the hopes of offering him some relief from his pain. The laudanum helped, but it did not entirely quell the trauma of the broken bones.

The Doctor returned each day, too. Rose could see that he was anxious, but he refused to tell her the source of his unease. Perhaps he was worried about the Secretary; after all, he was an important figure in the government. But he appeared to be in no immediate danger from his injuries.

Within a week, the house was quite full. Frederick and Augustus, Fanny's brothers, were settled in downstairs rooms. Both men were in their thirties, but to Rose they appeared much older. They were always well-dressed and formal in mannerisms. Their concern for their father was evident, but they left most of his care to their mother, sister, and the nurse.

On Rose's fifth day at the Seward home, a commotion drew her attention to the study. She'd heard the knock at the front door and been vaguely aware of William's polite words as he escorted someone through the foyer and down the hall. She'd been cleaning in the dining room, but the raised, emotional voices beckoned her. Was something wrong? Was this what the Doctor had hinted at?

She hurried along the hallway then paused outside the half-open door. She listened as a newcomer told Augustus and Frederick that General Lee had surrendered somewhere called Appomattox. With relief evident in their tones, the men acknowledged that the war was over.

"He's done it," Frederick said. "He's held the country together."

"Send him our congratulations," Augustus added.

"I will," replied the stranger. "He's asked about the Secretary more than once. Mrs. Lincoln plans to call tomorrow to bring their regards to Mrs. Seward."

"She would be honored," Frederick responded.

Rose hurried into the sitting room as the three men left the study. She felt a vague prickle up her spine as she realized that she was present during a very historic moment. Maybe that's what it was all about; perhaps she was simply here to witness history.

The next day, however, the Doctor seemed broodier than ever. They spoke for a few minutes after he checked on Seward, but he was distracted and paid little attention to her idle chatter. After a short while, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the sonic screwdriver.

"Keep this with you at all times," he said rather gravely, making a quick adjustment. "Just turn it on it if you need it."

"How'll I know which setting to use?" she asked.

"You won't need to."

Perplexed and growing slightly alarmed, she took the instrument and grasped it tightly. "Doctor, what's gonna happen?"

"I'm not entirely sure."

"But somethin's wrong."

He raked a hand through his hair. "Just hang onto it, Rose. And keep your eyes and ears open."

With those thoroughly unhelpful words, he was gone.

* * *

Rose did not know where the Doctor spent his time. He'd replied to her queries with vague comments about "here and there." He disliked telling her overt lies, but the situation was a delicate one. There was very little he could do that wouldn't result in a complete upset of history. Yet he was clearly here for a reason.

He devoted many hours to strolling through the attractive, tree-lined streets in the areas surrounding the White House. He didn't know what he was searching for, if anything, but some small tingling sense drove him onward.

One cloudy, cool day he found himself on a road identified as H Street. Twilight was falling as he walked past a row of townhomes. Two men strode by, and, as he'd become accustomed to doing for the last several days, he gave each a cursory glance.

He was immediately struck by the handsome features of the younger man. Well-built with fine, even bone structure, he was the sort who would draw attention from both male and female admirers. Yet he appeared uninterested in the Doctor's gaze, brushing past him and bowing his head slightly.

The other man was somewhat older, perhaps in his early thirties, and did not possess the attractiveness of his companion. Indeed, he appeared somewhat haggard, with lank hair and a short, slightly unkempt goatee and mustache. He did not acknowledge the Time Lord, either.

The Doctor watched as they walked toward one of the smaller houses. A lamp had just been lit in an upstairs window. For a brief moment a woman's face appeared, but then it was gone. The men spoke a few words that he could not quite hear then slipped inside the house.

The Doctor continued moving, albeit it with slightly slower steps. A light mist had begun falling, and now several other men hurried by, returning home from jobs in the Capitol. More lights blazed in windows, but none could dispel the dreary feel of the darkening street.

It was time to see Rose again. The Doctor glanced back along the road one more time then increased his pace. It would be good to be near warmth again.

* * *

On Rose's sixth day at the Seward home, the cook pulled her out of the back pantry with instructions to take a tea tray into the parlor.

"Mrs. Seward's got company," she told Rose, gesturing toward the old apron the newest servant wore. "Make yourself presentable, and use your best manners."

Rose removed the apron and smoothed her hair and skirt. The cook handed her the tray then nodded in approval. She carried the tea service and plates of small sandwiches and sweet biscuits down the hall, pausing at the open parlor door for just a moment.

She could see another woman sitting with Mrs. Seward. They spoke quietly; the guest rested a comforting hand upon her hostess's wrist.

Rose stepped into the room with a deferential, "Excuse me, Ma'am, but I've brought some tea."

Mrs. Seward looked up. "Thank you, Rose."

"Would you like me to pour?" she asked.

"No, thank you." Her attention returned to her guest, who offered Rose a brief smile.

The middle-aged woman was plump, with dark hair framing her round face. She wore a sable dress and matching bonnet and bore herself with a confident air. Her eyes were sharp and clear, and Rose saw determination and strength in them.

"Will there be anythin' else?" she asked her employer.

"That's all," replied Mrs. Seward, shifting her focus back to her visitor.

Rose returned to the kitchen. The cook looked at her expectantly.

"Well?" she asked.

"What?" Rose wasn't sure what she was supposed to have seen.

"Now you've met her, and her driver says _he _may visit, too."

"Who?"

"The President, of course! You've just served tea to Mrs. Lincoln."

"Oh!" Rose grinned. "Didn't expect that."

"After Secretary Seward's accident, I'm not sure what to expect anymore, though I suppose things will settle down now."

"Suppose so," Rose replied agreeably. But as she idly rubbed a thumb over the small silver cylinder in her pocket, she didn't feel quite so sure.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

Rose had been working for the Sewards for a full week. The most exciting things that she'd seen were the visitor who had delivered news about the end of the war and Mrs. Lincoln, who had brought a few minutes of comfort to Mrs. Seward.

The Secretary's wife tried to put on a brave front for her husband; he was rarely conscious for more than a few minutes at a time due to heavy doses of laudanum, and her smiling face greeted him in these sparse moments of lucidity. However, much of the time she was anxious and morose, worried that her husband would not recover. Rose was beginning to feel more concern for the harried woman than for the Secretary.

The Doctor stopped by in the afternoon on Rose's seventh day of employment. He still wore that slightly haunted look, and she could see the simmering tension in the tightness around his mouth and eyes. But he remained ambiguous in his answers regarding where he'd been and what he was doing.

Rose decided to change the topic to something more definitive. "I'm worried about Mrs. Seward," she said.

The Doctor's gaze fixed upon her with more attentiveness than she'd seen from him in days. "Yes? Why's that?"

"She's barely keepin' it together. She's really havin' a hard time with all this. I'm afraid she's gonna make herself sick."

He nodded. "I'll try to have a look at her when I go upstairs."

She followed him up to Seward's bedroom under the pretense of asking if Fanny wanted tea. The Secretary's daughter was quite devoted and spent much of her days and evenings at her injured father's side. She was stationed at her usual place today, and her mother sat opposite her holding the Secretary's hand between her pale palms. Sgt. Robinson was just leaving as they entered.

"Oh, Miss Rose," he said with a polite nod, "I was just going to call for you."

The Doctor slipped into the room behind her as she replied, "Yeah? What can I do for you?"

"Does Cook have any more of that broth you brought up this morning?"

"Yeah, I think so." She glanced at the injured man and noticed that the Doctor was bending over him. Fanny had gotten up to stand near her mother. "He looks a little better," she offered.

"I believe the broth agreed with him."

"I'll get another bowl. Oh, an' Cook's just finished a cobbler. I think you could use a slice."

She'd discovered that Sgt. Robinson had a bit of a sweet tooth. The former soldier remained professional in his medical duties, but during his meal breaks he relished the cook's delicious desserts. He was quite diligent in his care for the Secretary, and she felt he deserved a few moments of pleasure occasionally.

"Yes," the Doctor agreed, moving back toward the door. "Why don't you go downstairs and get some," he said to the sergeant. "You look as though you could do with a break."

"I'm fine," he protested. However, his limp belied his words. A bullet wound had removed him from battlefield duty, and he still experienced pain when he stood for too long.

With a quick glance at the leg, the Time Lord said, "Doctor's orders. I'll stay here until you return."

Sgt. Robinson looked at the Seward women. Mrs. Seward's attention remained on her husband, but Fanny was watching the small group at the door.

"Yes, Sergeant, go," she said gently. "Sit for a little while. We'll be fine."

He nodded gratefully then hobbled out into the hallway. The Doctor followed him with the comment, "Oh, and save a slice for me!" He beckoned to Rose before entering the room again.

She stepped outside. "What?" she asked softly, sensing something clandestine in the offing.

He took her hand and led her a few steps down the hall. "Seward's getting too much laudanum. He needs to regain full consciousness, and soon."

"Yeah, I had a feelin' it wasn't good for him to be drugged up all the time."

"It won't be, but I doubt Dr. Verdi or Sgt. Robinson will see that, at least not yet. So you're going to have to get the bottle and dilute it."

"All right," she said.

"I'll distract Mrs. Seward and Fanny. Pour out about half of the contents and replace them with water."

"Yeah."

They returned to the bedroom. The Doctor crouched at eye level before Mrs. Seward, who blinked at him in mild surprise as she turned slightly toward him.

"Mrs. Seward," he said with kind deference, "please forgive my forwardness, but you look a bit pale."

She lifted a hand to her bosom; the appendage trembled slightly. "I'm fine, Sir. You needn't be concerned about me."

Her other hand lay limply in her lap. He rested two fingers over her wrist and murmured, "Oh dear."

Fanny moved to stand behind her mother, placing a hand upon her shoulder. "What's the matter, Doctor?"

He looked up, and Rose could see genuine concern in his expression. "You're overtaxing yourself, Mrs. Seward. You're exhausted and need to rest."

"Mother, I told you to ask Dr. Verdi for a sleeping draught," Fanny said in gentle remonstrance. "She hasn't been able to sleep more than a few hours since Father was injured," she explained to the Doctor.

Rose had slipped around behind them to stand near the bedside table. The women's backs were toward her, so they did not see her hand reach out quickly and close around the bottle of laudanum. But the Doctor's sharp eyes caught her movement, and he gave her a quick nod of approval.

Rose walked quietly to the adjoining sitting room and poured a good measure of the liquid opiate into a glass then carefully dribbled water into the bottle. She waited a few moments to return to the bed chamber, watching the Doctor as he asked Mrs. Seward if he might listen to her heart.

Her hand clasped against her bosom. "Oh, no, that won't be necessary," she replied, sounding slightly breathless.

"We appreciate your kindness, though," Fanny said.

Rose surreptitiously returned the bottle to its original place then gathered a few items onto a tray, including the glass of laudanum, to take downstairs to be washed.

"If there's nothing else," she said with a slight bow to Mrs. Seward.

The older woman shook her head absently, and Rose stepped outside. She heard the Doctor say a few more words about proper rest and meals before he joined her.

"Done," she said simply, gesturing toward the glass.

"Good. That's one thing taken care of."

From his tone of voice, she knew there was more. "Right. So what else do we need to do?"

He shook his head; the inscrutable expression had returned to his face. "Keep your eyes open," was his only reply.

* * *

On April 13, a large, black carriage drawn by four powerful horses drove up to the house. Rose heard the clatter of the heavy wheels against the cobblestones as she was dusting in the parlor. She looked out the window, expecting to see Mrs. Lincoln or another of the well-dressed officials who periodically stopped in to inquire about the Secretary's condition.

Two burly men sat behind the driver. Both climbed down and stationed themselves near the door. It opened slowly, and another man exited. All three pairs of eyes scanned the street carefully before the passenger emerged.

Rose saw a tall man unfold his lanky frame from the interior of the conveyance. His head was bent, showing her only his dark hair. His three companions surrounded him as he walked toward the house, preventing her from seeing his face clearly.

William's quick footsteps echoed against the marble in the hallway as he hurried toward the front door. By the time she heard the sharp knock, she had moved into the parlor doorway so that she could see the foyer clearly.

William opened the door with a bow. One of the stocky fellows stepped inside first, again looking around as he asked the servant if anyone else was visiting.

"No Sir, only the house staff, Sgt. Robinson, and the family are here," he replied.

With a curt nod, the man stepped aside, permitting the honored guest to enter. Now Rose could see his face. The prominent cheekbones, dark beard, and deep-set eyes were all familiar to her, but she still required a moment to realize that she was staring at Abraham Lincoln. She gave a tiny gasp of surprise.

The bodyguard heard her and directed a stern look in her direction. William followed his gaze.

"That's Miss Rose," he informed the guards. "She helped Secretary Seward after the accident."

Three sets of eyes appraised her critically, leaving Rose vaguely uncomfortable and nebulously guilty. After all, she wasn't really supposed to be here. For a moment she felt like a spy.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "Didn't mean to intrude—was just cleanin' in here."

"There is no need to apologize, my dear," the President's deep voice rumbled warmly. His long stride carried him to the doorway in a few moments. "If anything, I am the one who should feel regretful. I had heard that a young woman provided assistance to my good friend when he was injured, and that she was subsequently offered a position here. I should have inquired immediately whether you were nearby so that I could offer you my gratitude."

With a somber smile, he took her hand in his. She looked up at the craggy features, struck by the deep sadness hidden behind his gaunt, dark eyes. It reminded her a great deal of someone else she knew quite well…

"Thank you, Sir," she managed, wondering whether she should curtsy.

But the President had already dropped her hand. He bowed his head slightly then turned to follow William up the stairs. Rose stood still for several seconds. She'd spent hours with Queen Victoria, one of the most regal women in history, yet she was left with a feeling of deeper respect and admiration from her brief moment with this common but noble man.

She began to remember a few things she'd read about Lincoln: His humble beginnings, in a log cabin, wasn't it? His lack of formal schooling but voracious appetite for learning on his own; she'd related to that bit so it stuck in her memory. The admiration of generations of Americans, as well as world leaders for his political skill and intellect.

And then she recalled one more thing.

"No," she muttered, watching the President as he disappeared down the upstairs hallway.

This great man would meet a dreadful end. The specific facts escaped her, but she knew that his assassination loomed in the near future. Was that why she was here? Was she supposed to warn him, to change his plans and prevent the tragedy? That must be what she was meant to do.

She needed to find the Doctor, to ask him, to be certain. But she had no idea where he was or how to locate him. He'd been so ambiguous about his whereabouts. Maybe she should return to the TARDIS on the chance that he was there?

He often visited in the late afternoon, though. She decided she'd wait until dusk. If he hadn't made an appearance by then, she'd go in search of him.

* * *

Rose was distracted for the rest of the day. She watched President Lincoln's carriage drive away after he'd had a short visit with Seward. She felt some small comfort knowing that the Secretary was more alert today. The reduction in laudanum dosage was helping; Fanny and Sgt. Robinson agreed that he seemed relatively cogent for the first time since the accident.

Mrs. Seward remained anxious and frail, though. Rose still worried about her, but there was little she could do, aside from bringing tea and subtly trying to encourage the woman to eat.

Rose was lighting the gas lamps in the front parlor when she saw Sgt. Robinson enter the house. He alternated between day and night shifts; he would stay from dusk until dawn for the next three days.

He caught a glimpse of her in the window and waved, making a point of coming into the room for a moment to speak to her.

"Good evening, Miss Rose," he greeted.

"Sergeant," she replied with a wan smile. She'd hoped the figure coming up the darkening street was the Doctor, and she couldn't help feeling disappointed.

"Is something the matter?" he asked. He was a perceptive man who quickly read other's emotions on their faces.

"No," she said, attempting to muster some cheer. "But you missed our big visitor."

His eyes widened slightly. "No! Was _he _here?"

"Yeah. Abraham Lincoln paid a call this morning."

"Well, I am sorry I missed that. I've seen him from afar and heard him speak—he's a magnificent speaker—but I've never met him."

"He's a kind man," she said. "Came over to thank me for helping Mr. Seward the day he was hurt."

"I'd heard that about him, so I'm not surprised."

"But there's this sadness to him," she continued. "Somethin' in his eyes…"

Robinson nodded. "He was devastated by the War. He wanted so desperately to keep the country united. And he's done it, but there've been such consequences…" Unconsciously he shifted his weight off his injured leg.

"Must've been really hard on him."

"It was. I've heard Mrs. Seward discuss it with Miss Seward. They both know him fairly well."

"He doesn't deserve it."

"The war, you mean?"

She paused for an instant. "Yeah, right, that's what I mean."

He studied her face for a moment. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Rose nodded. "Yeah. Seein' him—it was just kind of a big thing."

He smiled gently. "I'm sure it was. I should get to the Secretary now. Have a good night."

"Yeah, you too."

He left her in the half-dark room immersed in her wholly dark thoughts.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	5. Chapter 5

Rose was preparing to leave for the TARDIS when she heard a light knock at her door. She opened it immediately then exhaled in frustration when she found William rather than her Time Lord.

"I'm sorry to intrude," he said, misreading her expression, "but this was delivered for you."

He handed her an envelope. She recognized the odd, small handwriting as the Doctor's script.

"Thanks," she acknowledged, opening the envelop and reading the missive.

_ Rose—You won't see me for a day or two, but don't worry. Remain at Seward's house until I come for you. This is very important, and keep the s.s. with you at all times._

A strangely beautiful scrawl served as his signature.

She read it again then sighed in frustration. "Did the Doctor bring this?" she asked. Maybe he was still nearby…

"I'm not sure. I found it on the table in the foyer."

"Excuse me," she said quickly, brushing past him and dashing out the kitchen door.

She hurried around to the front of the house then squinted as she tried to see along the dark street. There was no one about.

"Doctor!" she called quietly.

The slight susurration of the leaves in the night breeze was the only reply.

* * *

He had to know what he was doing, didn't he? Rose spent a restless night asking herself the same question over and over again. He was the Doctor. He'd get it right. But what was her role in all of it?

Had she been meant to warn Lincoln when she saw him? Should she have said something to him? But what could she have said? She still couldn't remember exactly how or when he would die. Maybe she should have cautioned him to be extra careful, extra vigilant, or perhaps she should have spoken to one of his body guards.

She didn't know. But what if she'd made a grave mistake? What if her silence ended up costing the President his life?

She was still awake as weak, gray light filtered through the thin curtains. With a sigh, Rose got out of bed. She might as well get an early start on the new day and whatever it might bring.

* * *

The Doctor had ambled through nearly all of Washington, D.C. since his and Rose's arrival eight days earlier. His sharp eyes had taken in countless people and places, cataloging each with care.

Today he felt restless and apprehensive. On the surface, all appeared well. The weather was sunny and mild. Cherry blossoms lent a soft perfume to the air along the pretty streets he strolled. But it was all a mask; it couldn't hide the darkness that was looming.

He passed a church and idly noted the neatly printed placard announcing Good Friday services. The date was April 14. He was already aware of that, yet even so the overt knowledge left him slightly chilled.

As morning yielded to afternoon, his steps led him to 12th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. He paused for a moment to study the men and women who passed by. Government workers and businessmen hustled along, many returning to work after their lunch breaks. A few carried travel cases; they were visitors to the city, just as he was.

And then recognition struck. The Time Lord saw a familiar face in the man with the sable valise. The slightly unkempt hair, scraggly beard, and distracted expression took him back to the late afternoon when he'd passed two men on H Street. He'd seen this individual before, and in a city this size a second meeting was more than coincidence.

Instantly the Doctor's attention focused on the man, but he maintained a reasonable distance and easy pace as he followed along. The journey was a short one. The man entered a hotel called The Kirkwood and waited for a minute while a clerk helped a couple who had arrived before him. The Doctor slipped inside to sit on a bench in the small lobby, where he picked up a newspaper and feigned reading.

Above the page, he studied the man. His stance was tense, and his hand moved repeatedly over his breast pocket. There was a small bulge beneath the fabric of his coat. When he moved to the reception desk, the Doctor watched his back, noting the slight hunch to the shoulders.

Key in hand, the man entered the stairwell. The Doctor waited a minute or so then sauntered up to the desk.

"Afternoon," he greeted the clerk. "Do you have any rooms available? Preferably something facing the back, away from the street noise? And third or fourth floor, but not an odd-numbered room. Bit superstitious, I know, but…"

The clerk frowned in minor exasperation. "Just a moment, sir, I'll check."

When he turned to study the rack of keys, the Doctor leaned forward to skim the guest register. The most recent name was George Adams, and room number 126 was penciled in beside the signature. Five lines above he saw in large, neat script "U.S. Government." A quick glance confirmed that the key to the best suite was absent from the rack.

He took a half step back and looked up with an expression of ennui as the clerk turned around again.

"I have a room on the fourth floor, room 416," the clerk informed him.

"Hmm. Might do. But I require quiet—and another guest told me that you've got someone important staying here. How much commotion is that going to cause?"

"He's on another floor. You shouldn't hear anything."

"And _he _would be?" He leaned forward to capture the man's gaze.

The clerk blinked then replied slowly, "Vice President Johnson."

"He's here for the night?"

This was met with a glassy-eyed nod.

"Don't pay any attention to me," the Time Lord said, then he turned on his heel and strode back to the bench. He sat down, paper in hand, to wait.

* * *

Rose had mulled it over all day. Her gnawing anxiety left a tight knot in her stomach. There was no way around it. She needed to warn President Lincoln. Surely that was her purpose here. So she made up her mind. She would find a way to alert him to the potential danger he faced.

The only question was how to do it. William had told her that Mrs. Seward and Fanny knew the great man fairly well, and Mrs. Seward was clearly friends with Mrs. Lincoln. While contacting the President directly might be difficult, reaching his wife would likely prove much easier.

Just before supper she knocked on Mrs. Seward's door. She waited a few moments until she heard the slightly tremulous, "Come in."

She found the family matriarch sitting in a chair by the fireside. She looked up.

"Oh, Rose. Is it time for supper already?"

"In a little while, ma'am. But I wondered if I could speak with you for a minute before."

"About what? Oh!" She began to rise. "Has my husband gotten worse?"

"No, no," Rose quickly assuaged her, "nothin' like that. Actually Sergeant Robinson said he's more lucid this afternoon than he's been in a week, so he's doin' better."

Mrs. Seward sank down again, appearing faintly perturbed. "Then what is it?"

"It's about the President," Rose replied slowly, unsure how to begin.

"Mr. Lincoln? What about him?"

"You know him, an' you an' his wife are friends, yeah?"

"Yes. Mary and I have known each other for some time."

"I need to get a message to him, an' it'd probably be easiest if it came through her. So I was wonderin'—"

"A message? About what?"

"Erm…" She swallowed; her throat felt very dry. "When he was here yesterday, he took the time to speak to me, an' I just wanted to thank him, 'cause it's not many people who'd do that."

Mrs. Seward's stern expression softened. "He's a kind man. But you needn't bother Mary with such a trivial thing. She knows his nature."

"But I really feel that I should. Please, could I just write a short note, just a few words, an' maybe if you address it she'll open it straightaway—"

"Rose, it's not necessary."

"Yeah, it is." She didn't realize that tears had formed in her eyes until she blinked against the wetness.

Mrs. Seward's brow wrinkled. "Goodness, you were truly moved, weren't you?"

She sniffed and nodded.

"Well, we won't bother Mary with a note; she has quite enough to do already. But she plans to pay a visit tomorrow. I think we can arrange for you to have a few moments with her to convey your gratitude."

"Tomorrow? What time?"

"In the morning."

Considerably relieved, Rose smiled. "Thank you. That'd be great." A few words spoken in person would surely impress the severity of the situation upon Mrs. Lincoln.

"I'd like to dine in my chambers this evening," Mrs. Seward informed Rose. "Please prepare a tray for me."

"'Course. Are you all right? Is there anything else I can get you?"

"Perhaps I'll request that sleeping draught from Dr. Verdi after all. But no, dear, just supper will suffice tonight."

With a polite nod, Rose left, feeling lighter than she had all day.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

Hotel guests began filtering down the stairs and through the lobby as suppertime arrived. The Doctor watched each but did not move until George Adams passed by. The man's hands clenched and unclenched at his sides when they weren't pressed over his pocket. He did not leave the hotel. Instead, he walked slowly toward the bar adjoining the lobby.

The Time Lord rose and followed him inside, observing as he sat at a small table in the dimmest corner.

"Bourbon," Adams said curtly to the bartender.

The Doctor settled at the next table, offering Adams a nod of friendly greeting. This was met with only a stony stare. When the server brought the small tumbler of bourbon, the Doctor requested a bottle of the same.

He filled his glass then sipped slowly, watching the other man out of the corner of his eye. Adams finished the first glass quickly then ordered a second. He pressed a trembling hand over his pocket again and again as his gaze darted to the doorway repeatedly. After perhaps half an hour, he set a few coins upon the table and began to stand.

The Doctor reached over to set his bottle on Adams' table. "Have another one me," he said smoothly.

The man glanced at him then held his gaze for a moment. "All right," he replied.

He poured a measure of the liquor into his glass and drank. The Doctor settled back in his chair, taking one tiny sip of his own drink.

"So," he said casually,"what brings you to the city tonight?"

Adams shrugged. "Just something I promised to do… a favor."

"Ah, yes. Favors. I've been asked to do many, some easy and some a bit trickier."

"Trickier?" Adams shifted slightly in his chair, his body turning incrementally toward the Time Lord.

The Doctor nodded. "Yes. Things I didn't want to do. Things I knew weren't quite right."

"But maybe they were for a greater purpose, a greater good."

"Good for whom?" He turned his head to face the other man.

Adams did not respond immediately. Finally he said, "For a cause. For something you believe in."

The Doctor nodded toward Adams' glass, and the man finished the contents. His hand was still unsteady as he poured another serving. He downed it in a single swallow.

"And do you believe in it? I mean really, truly believe?" the Doctor asked, his voice soft yet intense.

"I thought I did."

"But you don't now. Or at least you have some doubt."

"And if I do?"

The Doctor rested a hand over Adams' arm. "Then you know what to do."

With that brief advice, he stood. "Keep the bottle. And keep true to yourself."

He did not look back as he walked from the room.

* * *

Rose extinguished the gas lamps throughout the downstairs rooms, leaving only the front parlor and hallway lights on, as was the household custom. The grandfather clock in the foyer showed that it was just after ten.

She was tired. It had been a difficult day on the heels of a sleepless night. But she felt less anxious now, knowing she'd see Mrs. Lincoln soon and pass along the critical warning. Still, her steps were slow as she returned to the kitchen.

The cook had gone home for the night, leaving the large room dark and deserted. Rose had left a lamp on in her tiny nook; she could see the soft glow beneath the door. She was ready for bed, ready for sleep.

But she'd forgotten to return to Mrs. Seward's rooms and gather up the supper things. Her temporary employer disliked clutter and untidiness, and seeing her used dishes in the morning would not please her.

Rose sighed and headed for the stairs. Augustus and Frederick had retired for the night. She noted that both had closed their bedroom doors, though Frederick was still awake, undoubtedly reading by lamplight. She continued down the hallway with soft steps toward Mrs. Seward's apartment and tapped gently upon the door.

She expected that the gentlewoman was asleep. When he'd stopped in just after supper, Dr. Verdi had given her a bottle containing some sort of sleep medicine at her request. The poor woman really was exhausted.

Rose knocked softly again then opened the door a little. "Mrs. Seward?" she said quietly. "It's Rose. I'm just gonna get your supper tray."

She stepped inside. A small lamp upon the wall cast a wan light through the sitting area. Rose saw the tray just where she'd left it earlier. Most of the food was untouched. With a small sigh, she gathered the dishes.

"Rose?" Mrs. Seward's wispy voice inquired from the bed chamber.

"Yes, ma'am. Just tidyin' up."

"Come here, please."

Mrs. Seward was sitting up in bed against the pillows.

"Yes?" Rose asked.

"A glass of water, please. The pitcher is empty." She glanced at the night table.

Rose fetched the carafe and filled it from a larger pitcher in the sitting room. She returned to Mrs. Seward and poured some water into a glass.

"Thank you," the matriarch said.

"'M sorry if I disturbed you. I thought you'd be sleepin'." She gestured toward the brown bottle beside the bed.

"I took only half what Dr. Verdi recommended. Perhaps I should have taken the full dose, but I dislike the thought of being unavailable should William need me."

"D'you feel sleepy?"

"I do."

"Well, maybe you should give it a little more time."

She nodded. "I suppose I should."

"Is there anythin' else I can get you?"

"No thank you."

"I'll see you in the mornin', then. What time should I tell Cook to have the tea things ready?"

Mrs. Seward blinked sleepily. "Tea things?"

"Yeah, for Mrs. Lincoln's visit."

"Oh, of course. I believe it will be late morning. She and Mr. Lincoln are going to the theater tonight."

"They'll be out late, then?"

"I should think so."

Rose turned to go, but almost as an afterthought asked, "What theater're they goin' to?" As soon as the question popped from her mouth she wondered why she'd asked it.

"Ford's."

Rose was half-way down the hall when recognition struck. Suddenly she remembered that crucial bit from her history courses. Lincoln was shot while attending a play at Ford's theater. She gasped. It was tonight. The President was going to be killed tonight.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	7. Chapter 7

Abruptly Rose's feet began to move. She ran toward the Secretary's room. The sitting area and bedroom doors were open; she could see Fanny and Sgt. Robinson sitting near the bed. She was about to dash inside but stopped herself.

What could she say? There was nothing either the nurse or Seward's daughter could do. Maybe Frederick or Augustus could intervene. The latter had served in the Union Army. He was a soldier; he'd know what to do. But how could she convince him that Lincoln was in danger?

There was really only one person she needed right now, one person who would know just what to do.

"Doctor!" she murmured. "Where the hell are you?"

Even as she spoke the words, the answer came to her. He must be at the theater. He was the one who would stop the assassination and save the President's life. He'd told her to remain at the Sewards' house to keep her safe. But now that she understood, she realized that her place was at his side. Surely there was something she could do to help him and be certain that he remained safe, too.

She hurried down the stairs, intent on asking William to wake the driver. But, to her surprise, she saw the butler in the foyer. Then she heard the knocking at the door.

William opened the door partially. "Yes?" She could tell from his tone that he did not recognize the visitor.

"I've been sent by Dr. Verdi," a male voice replied. "I'm his assistant. He's given me medication for Mr. Seward."

"I'll take it," William said.

"No," the visitor replied obdurately. "Dr. Verdi wishes me to speak with the Secretary personally to explain the administration."

"I'll get his nurse, then."

"No, no, I need to see him myself."

William hesitated then opened the door fully. "Very well."

Rose watched as a tall, well-built man stepped inside. Immediately she was struck by his handsome features and blond hair. He strode purposefully through the foyer, overtaking the servant as they climbed the stairs. William paused momentarily when he saw Rose on the landing; the visitor barely acknowledged her with a brief glare.

"William," she said quickly. "I need to speak with you."

"In a minute." He hastened up the staircase after the guest.

Rose really couldn't wait a minute, and she felt more and more certain that the Doctor and the President couldn't, either. She followed the two men to the third floor. Frederick emerged from his room as they stepped into the hallway.

"What's this?" he asked, eyeing the visitor critically. "Who are you?"

"I'm Dr. Verdi's assistant," the man said somewhat hastily. "He's sent me with medicine for Mr. Seward with instructions for me to explain how he is to take it."

Frederick shook his head. "My father is asleep," he said firmly with a nod toward the closed bedroom door.

At that moment the door opened, and Fanny appeared. "Father is awake now," she told the small group, then she stepped back inside.

Rose remained a few paces behind but saw the visitor turn sharply, apparently to descend the stairs. He thrust a hand into his coat. She felt he heart hammering in her chest as he withdrew a revolver.

Then everything seemed to happen in slow motion. He spun around to face Frederick as he shoved William out of the way. The butler fell to the floor. The assailant lifted the gun toward Frederick's forehead. She saw him cock the weapon as his finger moved toward the trigger.

Rose's own fingers closed around the sonic screwdriver tucked inside her dress pocket. She pulled it out and switched it on. The visitor's finger was moving, pulling the trigger as Frederick's expression reflected the sudden threat to his life. She aimed the screwdriver at the gun.

The assailant squeezed the trigger. Rose closed her eyes instinctively, waiting for the sound of gunfire. All she heard was a dull click. When she opened her eyes again, she saw the invader shift the gun around in his hand then lift it to slam against Frederick's temple. He stumbled, but the assault did not stop. The man continued his blows as blood began welling from the wounds.

"Stop it!" Rose cried, lunging at the attacker.

His elbow struck her hard in the side: She faltered, falling back. Her head hit the railing with a thud, and the lights seemed to dim. It took her a moment to regain her senses and her footing, and by then Frederick lay insensate on the floor. She knelt beside him, pressing a hand over his bleeding forehead as she looked up to assess the scene.

Fanny was coming out of the bedroom, her eyes widening at the sight she saw.

"Shut the door!" Rose cried, but it was too late.

The intruder rushed inside, shoving Fanny out of the way. Rose attempted to stand, but a wave of dizziness pulled her down again. Through the vague haze, she heard Fanny's screams, and as awareness began to return she saw Augustus dash by, his feet pounding heavily on the wooden floor. The thud reverberated through her aching head.

She watched in abject horror as the assailant swung his knife at Seward. The Secretary tried to rise, reaching out toward his daughter in an attempt to block her from injury, but with the first slash of the wickedly large knife he fell back. Blood blossomed over his cheek, but the assassin was not finished. He continued his assault, succeeding in stabbing his victim several times.

Robinson and Augustus sprang at the man, but he drove them back with powerful blows. Seward twisted and writhed, trying to get away. His efforts caused him to roll off the bed and fall to the floor. As the attacker bent toward him, the sergeant and Augustus managed to grasp his arms. Fanny interposed herself between her father and his assailant. The Secretary's son reached for a pistol on the night table.

The intruder's eyes fell upon the gun, and his arm whipped out to deliver cuts to Fanny, Augustus, and Robinson. The young woman gasped in pain, backing away. The sergeant stumbled back, too, and the would-be assassin lurched away from Augustus.

Rose began to get to her feet as her head finally cleared. She was peripherally aware of the front door opening and a voice calling up, but she did not spare the precious seconds needed to look down.

The killer was running toward her, his knife still clasped in his hand. She needed to stop him, to prevent him from getting away. She lifted the sonic screwdriver again, hoping against hope that it would stop him in some way.

But he shoved past her in a flash and sprinted down the stairs. She followed him but stumbled on the first landing in the urgency of her haste. He'd already reached the foyer, where a stranger stood with a telegram in his hand.

"Hey!" he yelled, but the attacker thrust the knife into his back, silencing the hapless messenger as he dropped to the marble floor.

The assailant paused for a heartbeat as he neared the front door. He lifted his face to the ceiling and cried, "I'm mad! I'm mad!" Then he sprinted out the door and into the night.

Rose got to her feet again and turned to look back at the bedroom. She heard Fanny frantically gasp out, "Oh my God. Father's dead!"

But then a masculine voice responded, "I am not dead; send for a doctor, send for the police. Close the house."

Rose exhaled in utter relief. A few steps above her, William had regained his senses and was standing up. "I'll secure the doors and windows," he said rather shakily.

He shambled down the stairs, pausing when he reached Rose. "Are you all right?" he asked, his eyes darting over her.

"Yeah. You?"

He nodded. "Can you help me with the doors? I'm going to send the driver for Dr. Verdi and the police."

She followed him down. He exited through the kitchen door as she hurried to the main entrance. She took a moment to bend over the injured messenger. He was breathing and semi-conscious, and the wound was not bleeding profusely.

"I'll be back soon," she told him, brushing a hand over his damp forehead.

Then she stood and slid the bolt into place. When she returned to the kitchen, the door was just closing. William was back; now they could secure this entrance, too. In the dimness, she saw him pause.

"Rose."

Her throat tightened at the familiar voice. "Doctor?" she rasped.

He took a step forward. She could see him now in a beam of moonlight. Immediately he opened his arms to her. She rushed forward, falling into his embrace.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	8. Chapter 8

Rose's words tumbled out. "Oh my God. He tried to kill Seward, an' he stabbed Augustus an' Fanny and Sergeant Robinson, an' Frederick—I don't know if he's alive or dead. An' there's some poor bloke in the front hall, too—"

The Doctor's hand ran over her back. "Sshh. Everyone's going to be all right. But we need to leave. Now."

"But they're hurt. You can help—"

"No. They'll be in good hands. But once the police arrive, there'll be questions and suspicions building, and it won't be safe for you here."

She looked up at him. His expression remained tight and somber. He reached for her hand and took it firmly. She thought his own hand was very, very cold. He led her outside, around the back of the house and through an alleyway.

She saw lights coming on in neighboring houses. Several windows opened as people called out inquiries. The Doctor kept to the shadows until they reached the end of the street, then he draped his coat over her shoulder and looped his arm through hers. With brisk steps he escorted her for a dozen or more blocks.

Three times she began to speak, but he silenced her with a firm shake of his head and a hasty word or two about remaining quiet until they were somewhere safe. The TARDIS was miles away, so she doubted they were going there.

She was correct. After about ten minutes they reached an unimposing townhouse. They entered through the back door and quietly climbed the narrow staircase. He produced an old-fashioned key and slipped it into a door at the end of the hallway then motioned her inside.

She found a small room with a tiny sitting area and a bedroom set tucked into the far corner. A few coals glowed in the grate. The Doctor stoked the fire and lit a large kerosene lamp then turned back to Rose.

She was still standing near the door, trying to process all that had happened. He'd said that everyone in the Seward household would be all right. That was good—very good. Maybe they had averted more than one tragedy tonight.

"Did you save him?" she asked, her throat suddenly quite dry.

He did not reply. Instead he gestured toward the diminutive settee then poured some water into a tumbler. Rose sank down on the cushions and took the glass from him but did not drink.

"Doctor," she tried again, "Lincoln was supposed to be shot tonight. Did you save him?"

He closed his eyes for a moment then opened them to look past her. "No."

"No? What d'you mean? He wasn't shot?"

She saw him swallow. "He was."

"But he's not dead, yeah?"

"He's still alive, but he won't last past the morning."

She didn't understand. She stood up abruptly and grasped his hands. His coat fell to the floor. "But you were there, weren't you? At the theater. That's why we came here: To prevent his assassination."

His eyes flicked down her to left arm then back up to her face. "No, Rose, it's not. There are some things that can't be changed, some historical constants that mustn't be altered, and this is one of them."

"No, it can't be. You have to go an' save him. It's not too late, is it? There must be somethin' you can do."

"There's not," he said hollowly. "Lincoln is going to die just after 7:00 tomorrow morning. History can't be changed."

"But I've already changed it! That man—he was gonna shoot Frederick. He had a gun. I think he was plannin' on shootin' Seward, too. But I used the sonic screwdriver an' the gun didn't fire, an' Seward's not dead."

"Neither is Johnson."

"Who the hell's Johnson?" she asked. Tears of frustration, confusion, and anguish were welling in her eyes.

"Vice President Andrew Johnson. He'll take the oath of office tomorrow. He would have been killed tonight, too; that was the plan."

She blinked against her tears. "Is that what you were doin'? Savin' him?"

He nodded. "As Secretary of State, Seward was next in line after Johnson for the presidency. If both he and Johnson had been assassinated, the entire course of history would have been changed irrevocably."

"But not if Lincoln died? I don't understand." Tears streamed down her face now.

"I know, Rose."

Her hands balled into fists. She pressed them against his chest as a sob escaped her. And then she was crying in earnest, weeping in his arms until her legs turned to jelly. He held her securely, easing her down to sit in his embrace.

As her sobs slowed, he lifted her chin and held the glass while she sipped some water. When she'd finished, she saw that his eyes were bright and damp, too. He placed his hands upon her cheeks.

"This is the way it has to be," he said, finally meeting her gaze. His voice was soft now and his expression tender.

She nodded. "Yeah."

His fingers moved over her hair and then stopped. "What's this?" he asked, gently probing the site where her skull had impacted with the railing.

She winced as he increased the pressure slightly. The ache in her head had become a dull constant, inconsequential against the backdrop of the night's events, but now she felt it acutely.

"He pushed me," she replied. "That man. I tried to stop him from attackin' Frederick, but I fell back an' hit my head on the banister."

His hands dropped into his lap. "You were there, right there in the midst of it." His tone was heavy with regret.

"Always am." She tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace.

"Give me the screwdriver."

She pulled it from her pocket. He switched it on and adjusted the setting before scanning her head then shifting the blue beam to her eyes.

"No concussion," he reported.

"I'm all right," she confirmed. "Suppose I've got a pretty thick skull."

He did not even smile at her attempt to joke. His attention had shifted to her left arm. As his cool fingers wrapped around her elbow, he lifted the limb. She looked down and was surprised to see a tear in her sleeve just over her bicep. Even more surprising was the blood that had saturated the fabric.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "When did that happen?" But even as she phrased the question, she remembered the assailant rushing past her with that wicked knife in his hand. Still, she hadn't even felt it.

"Adrenaline," he said as he began rolling up her sleeve. "When it floods the human system, it often dulls pain temporarily."

Apparently it was wearing off, because she felt a distinct sting now, and it was rapidly turning into a throb. She watched as he exposed her arm and examined the wound. It had stopped bleeding, which she supposed was good.

"It's not too deep," he informed her, and she could hear the relief in his tone. "I'll clean and bandage it to prevent infection 'til I can repair it properly with the dermal regenerator."

He stood and busied himself at the dresser. Rose leaned back against the cushions as deep weariness began to overtake her.

"So whose room is this?" she asked, stifling a yawn.

"Mine, at least for the moment."

"You rented a room?"

"I couldn't very well keep going back and forth to the TARDIS, and I wanted to be where I could keep an eye on things."

"So what were you doin'? Watchin' the guy who was plannin' to kill Johnson?"

"I was watching a lot of people," he replied rather obliquely. He returned to the settee carrying a basin of water, a bar of soap, and a small towel. He deposited them on the little side table then sat down beside her again.

As he began working on her wound, she asked, "So where's Lincoln now? He's not alone, is he?"

"No, Rose. His wife is with him, and I believe he'll have many visitors throughout the night."

"Will he…" She swallowed as fresh tears pricked at her eyes. "Will he suffer?"

"No. The nature of the injury is such that he won't feel anything."

"That's good. I know I only met him for a minute, but I could tell he was a good man—a really special man."

The Doctor nodded soberly. "He was."

He wiped clean water over the cut. It stung deeply. She tried not to flinch, but it was hard to remain still in the face of pain.

He glanced up at her. "Almost finished."

"Yeah."

He dried the wound then wrapped it in clean strips of linen liberated from the unused bed sheet. She sighed unintentionally as he was unrolling her sleeve.

"You're tired," he said.

"Long day," she agreed.

He stood and held out his hand. "Come on, then."

He helped her up. Her legs felt shaky, and for a moment the floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet. She shook her head to clear it and found that he'd wrapped an arm securely around her back. He led her to the bed, where she sank down immediately. He removed her shoes then lifted her legs onto the mattress. However, the long skirt tangled about her ankles and calves.

"Let me help you with this," he said, already working at the buttons down the back of her dress with his nimble fingers.

Rose was too tired to protest. Besides, the dress did feel tight and restricting, and she needed comfort just now. The Doctor slid the garment down over her shoulders, mindful of her injured arm, then helped her to stand again. Fabric pooled on the floor, and she stepped out of it.

She wore a pretty, lace-trimmed cotton camisole and long slip. Freed from the dress, she was immediately cold and wrapped her arms around herself. The Time Lord lifted a folded blanket from the foot of the bed, and she lay down gratefully.

She was exhausted, yet when she closed her eyes the terrible images from the evening's carnage stormed through her mind. She thought of Lincoln, too, imagining the dreadful scene at the theater and his wife's anguish, and her chest became tight and sore.

She didn't realize that she was crying again until she felt the soft touch of silk against her cheek. The Doctor was bending over her, wiping her tears with his handkerchief.

"Sshh," he soothed softly. His hand brushed over her cheek, fingers lingering at her temple for a moment until tranquil blackness blanketed her, and Rose knew nothing more.

* * *

_To be concluded…_


	9. Chapter 9

As he tucked the blanket around her shoulders, the Doctor's fingers brushed against Rose's skin. She remained cold, and his touch caused a little sigh to escape her. He added a second blanket, waited a minute, then rested his palm against her brow. She was growing warmer.

He moved with slow steps back toward the hearth, lifting his hand toward the fire's glow. He hadn't felt a chill like this in a long time. He pulled a chair toward the grate then sank down wearily. His hand ran idly through his hair.

He sat for a long time, staring at the fire as it burned then quelled to embers. His thoughts were far away yet painfully present as he visualized both the future and the moments currently ticking away.

Soon one of the world's greatest leaders would belong to the ages. With the dawn would come the end of an era but the beginning of a new epoch. His gaze wandered back to the bed, where the one little human who had ensured the course of history lay sleeping.

He stood and walked quietly toward her. She lay on her right side, instinctively protecting the injured arm from further discomfort. He lowered the blankets to check the bandage. A bit of blood had seeped through the linen, but the bleeding had not continued to any significant degree.

His focus shifted to her face. She was pale still, but she was breathing evenly. He rested his fingers against her wrist to feel the pulse that beat beneath the soft skin. It was a little faster than he liked; however, one glance at her closed eyes confirmed that she was dreaming.

He stroked her cheek with his thumb, hoping to send a bit of comfort to her unconscious mind. Sighing softly, she shifted against the mattress. The blanket fell away from her. He began adjusting it again, noticing that her camisole had ridden up, exposing part of her right flank.

In the dimness of the lamplight, the bruise looked like nothing more than a shadow at first. But the Doctor's sharp eyes caught the unnatural darkness against Rose's fair skin. He slid up the camisole to find a contusion that covered a good portion of her ribcage. He leaned in to assess her respiration more carefully. He detected no dyspnea; her breaths were regular and deep.

Even so, he disliked the look of the bruise, and the location suggested the possibility of a rib fracture. Rose had been light-headed earlier, possibly a sign of building respiratory distress, so it was best to err on the side of caution. He scanned her chest with the sonic screwdriver and was relieved to find no signs of hemorrhaging or other significant trauma.

Gently he rolled her onto her back. She stirred but did not wake; her exhaustion and the subtle slumber suggestion he'd given her kept her in deep sleep. Even so, he rested his fingertips against her temple again and sent another message to her mind so that she would remain asleep for several more hours.

Then he moved his hand over the bruise, his eyelids lowering as his sensitive fingers probed softly for irregularities in the bones. Fortunately he did not detect any fractures, but the contusion was fairly deep and he knew it would cause her pain when she woke and began moving about. Her discomfort would be short-lived, however; he planned to take her back to the TARDIS first thing in the morning.

Evaluation completed, he permitted his hand to remain against her skin for a moment longer, cherishing the humanity in the warmth beneath his palm. Finally he drew back, adjusting her camisole and covering the evidence of the perilous night.

But there might be more damage to her fragile little body. She hadn't felt the knife wound; other injuries could be lurking. He brought the lamp closer then folded back the blankets completely. He checked her left side, gently feeling along the ribcage then running careful hands over her limbs. He didn't realize that his hearts were pounding until he was tucking the blankets around Rose's shoulders again. She was all right: Aside from the knife wound and bruise, he'd found nothing more serious than a scrape on one elbow.

He extinguished the kerosene lamp then shuffled back to the chair at the hearth. He sank down heavily and closed his eyes. He would not sleep, but he needed the oblivion of total darkness for just a little while.

**

Rose woke to the smell of fresh coffee. The aroma signaled the start of a new day, but she was loath to open her eyes. Her head ached rather fiercely, and her arm felt tight and stiff. She shifted slightly and found soreness in her right side, too. She'd had a hell of a night.

She supposed there was nothing for it now. With a small sigh she forced her heavy eyelids to open.

"Awake?" the Doctor asked.

She was almost startled to find him crouched by the side of the bed, his elbows resting on the mattress. Apparently he'd been watching her.

"Yeah," she murmured, rubbing a hand over her face.

"How're you feeling?"

"Like crap," she replied immediately, then she added, "but I'll survive. Coffee'll help."

He glanced at the small table in the miniature sitting area. "Mrs. Waltham brought coffee, with rolls and jam. Strawberry jam. Home made."

"You've got a woman bringin' you breakfast now? Sounds awfully domestic," she teased.

He frowned a little. "It's just part of the package. She does it for all the boarders."

"Right." Rose sat up slowly but still winced.

"How's the arm feel?" His concerned gaze moved to the bandage.

She looked down. Her stomach turned a bit at the dried blood. "'S all right," she reassured him.

"I'll sort it as soon as we get back to the TARDIS."

He stood and busied himself with the coffee things while Rose gingerly got out of bed. The room was cool; the fire had died out. She pulled a crocheted blanket from the footboard and wrapped it around her shoulders then sat down on the settee. The Doctor handed her a cup, and she took a few sips. The rich, strong liquid warmed her and seemed to dispel some of the achiness from her head.

He remained standing. "Have some breakfast," he encouraged her.

She slathered jam on a roll and found that she was ravenous when the first bite touched her tongue. "Mmm," she said around the sweetness.

"She does good jam," he confirmed.

Rose swallowed. "Aren't you havin' any?"

"Already did," he replied, looking toward the window.

"But the basket's still full," she began to protest. However, one glance at his face in the full light showed that he remained tense. She knew that beneath his apparently calm exterior he was brooding.

Her eyes wandered to the mantle clock. The time was 7:48. "Doctor," she said softly, "is it over now?"

He nodded. "We should go soon."

She stood and reached for her clothes, which were arranged neatly on a chair. She dressed as quickly as she could, although the soreness in her arm hindered her slightly. When she'd finished, the Doctor handed her a lap robe.

"Wrap this around your arms," he instructed. "With all that's happened, we don't want to draw attention to your wound."

"Yeah, all right." She donned the impromptu wrap then followed him out the door.

* * *

They exited the hansom cab at the base of the hill. Their ride through Washington D.C. had been uneventful, but people were beginning to crowd the streets as word about the previous night's tragedy spread. Rose and the Doctor had made it out of the city just in time, really.

She felt a sense of relief when she stepped inside the ship. Immediately the subtle hum soothed her raw nerves, assuaging the dull pain in her head.

The Doctor stood looking out at the clear, blue sky for a few moments before closing the doors. Then he took her hand. His voice was a little husky as he said, "Come on. I want to sort your arm."

She permitted him to lead her to the infirmary. They were both uncharacteristically quiet as he rolled up her sleeve and removed the bandage then repaired the wound with the dermal regenerator. He ran the instrument over the lump on her head, too, removing the residual ache entirely.

"Let me get that bruise, too," he said, gesturing toward her torso.

She glanced down. "How'd you know about that?"

"I saw it last night… when you were changing out of your dress. It looked painful."

"It's all right," she began, but his expression stopped her. His cheerful front had faded, and now she could see how truly bereft he was. He needed to know that he could still fix things, that he was still the Doctor. So she nodded and said, "Yeah, okay."

She shimmied out of the dress then got back up on the examination couch and pulled up her camisole to expose the deep purple contusion.

"Lie back," he requested.

She complied then watched as he moved the regenerator slowly over the injured flesh. The pain melted away as the discoloration faded.

"Thanks," she said when he'd finished. She sat up and reached for her dress. "I'm gonna have a shower and get back into some normal clothes."

He nodded, and she could tell he was only half listening to her. They walked out of the clean, white room together, but their paths diverged in the corridor. He was clearly heading back to the Console Room.

"Are we leaving?" she asked, reaching out to wrap her fingers around his arm.

He nodded. "It's time."

Her grip tightened fractionally. "But I feel like we should do something more, like it's not really finished yet."

He looked at her fully, his eyes dark and haunted. "And what would you have us do?"

"I… I dunno."

She released him and hurried to her room. Maybe it really was time to move on.

* * *

_To be concluded in the Epilogue._


	10. Epilogue

Rose felt the ship dematerialize as she was stepping out of the shower. She sensed that they'd landed about ten minutes later. She had supposed they'd hover in the Vortex for some time, so she was curious to know where the Doctor had taken them.

Dressed comfortably in a soft jumper, jeans, and sneakers, she hurried to the Console Room. He stood at the console, a pensive expression on his face.

"Doctor?" she inquired. "Where are we?"

He offered her a wan smile. "Baltimore, Maryland, April 21, 1865." He walked down the ramp.

"Yeah? Why?"

He handed her his overcoat. She noticed he'd changed back to his brown suit. "Put this on; it's chilly out."

She followed him outside to find a grey, dreary day. They'd landed in an alleyway, but as they emerged into the street she saw crowds gathering. The Time Lord took her hand and led her toward an old building. After opening the large padlock with the sonic screwdriver, he and Rose stepped inside. They climbed the stairs then stationed themselves at a second-storey window.

From this vantage point, she could see train tracks and realized that they were near a station. Even as she watched, the train came into view.

"What is it?" she asked. "Why're we here?"

He waited a few moments before responding, until the cars draped in dark garlands were visible.

He told her, "This in Lincoln's funeral train. It will take him back to Springfield, Illinois, where he was born." He nodded at the throngs now pushing toward the tracks. "Tens of thousands of people will come out to see the train, to view his body, and to pay their respects. This is one of the first stops, but all together the train will travel nearly 2000 miles, and in every tiny town and big city citizens will remember and mourn him."

Rose's throat felt tight as the cars passed below. She didn't need the Doctor to tell her which one held the President's coffin; she just knew. She sniffed and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"Thank you," she said huskily.

His hand found hers, and he looked down at her for a moment. But he said nothing; no words were required.

* * *

Rose was in the library, curled upon one of the worn leather sofas. She held an American history text in her lap. Although she'd never been an enthusiastic reader, she was completely absorbed in the material.

"What's that you're reading?" the Doctor asked as he entered the room.

"History," she replied.

"Ah." He didn't need to ask the specifics. It was inevitable that she'd seek information eventually.

She looked up at him. "Powell," she said, "Lewis Powell, though he also went by Lewis Paine. That's the bloke who attacked the Sewards. An' the one you stopped must've been George Atzerodt; suppose he used a false name at the hotel. He an' Powell were both working with John Wilkes Booth. They were supposed to kill the secretary and Vice President at the same time Booth shot Lincoln. The book says Atzerodt was planning to kill Johnson, but he ended up getting drunk an' just wandering away from the hotel where the Vice President was staying." She closed the book with a soft thud. "That was because of you. You got him drunk, didn't you?"

"I may have offered him a glass or two."

"So you knew what he was gonna do. You stopped him."

He shrugged noncommittally.

"An'," she continued, tapping the cover with her index finger, "Seward probably would've died if Powell'd been able to stab him in the neck, but that brace thingy you made prevented the knife from cutting his jugular. An' Powell's gun jammed—to this day no one knows why that happened, but all the historians call it a fluke." She glanced at the pocket where he kept the sonic screwdriver.

Again he said nothing but merely gave her a half nod.

"So is that why we were there? To save those two men?"

"Apparently so. Sometimes we end up in the right place at the right time, and I think this was a case of that."

"But we couldn't save Lincoln. We weren't supposed to do that."

"No, Rose, we weren't."

"I'm not sure I really understand."

"Sometimes I don't, either. But in this case I do know that Seward's survival was critical. In 1867 he arranged for the Alaska Purchase when America bought the land from Russia."

"Yeah, so?"

"I think that's a lesson for another time. Suffice to say that Alaska has played several important roles in American history, from gold rushes to politics. There's going to be an election in the next couple of years that would've turned out very differently if not for Alaska."

"Good different or bad different?"

"Oh, that's a question for the politicians, and, I suppose ultimately, for the ages. But that's not why I came in here."

He walked purposefully toward one of the shelves and withdrew a leather-bound book. He flipped through it for a moment then handed it to Rose.

She glanced down. "It's a poem."

"Yes, it is—one of the most evocative tributes to Lincoln ever written. Walt Whitman was a great admirer of the man, and his death left a significant impact. Read it, Rose."

She lowered her head to the page.

_O Captain! my Captain, our fearful trip is done,  
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,  
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,  
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;  
But O heart! heart! heart!  
O the bleeding drops of red,  
Where on the deck my Captain lies,  
Fallen cold and dead._

_O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;  
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills,  
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding,  
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;  
Here Captain! dear father!  
The arm beneath your head!  
It is some dream that on the deck,  
You've fallen cold and dead._

_My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,  
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,  
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,  
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;  
Exult O shores and ring O bells!  
But I with mournful tread,  
Walk the deck my Captain lies,  
Fallen Cold and Dead._

When she looked up, blinking against her tears, she was now the solitary occupant of the cavernous room. But Rose understood that she was not alone. She had touched greatness, and its echoes would remain with her forever.

* * *

_**Author's Note**: _Amid the resurgence of interest in Lincoln surrounding the 200th anniversary of his birth, I found inspiration to explore the related events. Powell's gun did, in fact, misfire, apparently a rarity for such a weapon. Seward's life, too, was probably saved by the protection offered by the heavy brace encasing his neck. If not for a series of small events, I believe history would have unfolded quite differently.

Please know that I intend no disrespect toward any of the historical figures mentioned. I have tried to convey information about them as accurately and objectively as possible using a variety of non-fiction resources.


End file.
